A Travel Story
A travel story. My husband and I were anxious to get home after a fun-packed wedding weekend in upstate New York. On route to the Syracuse airport for an early morning flight, I received a text notification that our connecting flight to Dayton was delayed. No problem, we thought. The hour delay in the Washington Dulles airport would give us a chance to grab some breakfast.
Soon, however, the hour delay became a two-hour delay, and then news that the scheduled plane bound for Dayton somehow ended up in Erie requiring a new flight crew peaked our concern. OK, we thought, as this felt a bit more inconvenient than an opportunity for breakfast.
We ended up in the airport pub. Dulles International Airport is huge, but the terminal for flights to our beloved Dayton are located in a remote airport extension located somewhere between the air traffic control tower and the rolling hills of Virginia. There are 4 gates, no jet ways, one set of restrooms, and one place of eatery. The Pub, let me tell you, is THE place to go, the ONLY place to in “Dulles Terminal Yonder” for one of those airport chicken wraps and fries in a basket.
Because we were not the only travelers delayed, we struck up conversation with those sitting around us. The Pub is a small place, conversation between and around the tables was easy. We met a woman from New Hampshire who grows tulips in the wintertime. I was struck by her pursuit of loveliness amidst the dormant northeast frost. We met a scientist from Washington trying to get to Wright Patterson Air Force Base for a conference with people much smarter than me. His son works for one of those intelligence agencies identified by three letters. He couldn’t tell us more, not even his last name. I felt like I was in the middle of some spy story.
Another woman from North Carolina had been stuck at Dulles since the day prior, trying to get home to her Opera singer daughter. We talked about mental health, her bi-polar diagnosis, her love of surfing, and our mutual love of books. It was a rich afternoon with good conversation as the flight delays piled on top of each other, one hour at a time. We laughed more with each rescheduled departure. You know we were there for a long time when the New Hampshire tulip farmer left for her delayed fight and arrived at her destination while we were still sitting in the Pub. Yes, we exchanged contact information because that’s what you do when you spend hours together in an airport.
My husband and I were able to get home that day, 14 hours after our travel day began. Believe me, we were travel weary, but the lingering gift of meeting such a diverse group of people could never have been possible without the lost plane in Erie. I love such serendipity; when fleeting meets openness meets the rejection of frustration. Travel delays, you know, require an attitude check with each text alert, and a deep breath.
We are scheduled for another 2-legged flight in a few weeks. I plan to bring some more good book suggestions, a healthy appetite for airport food, and the serene vision of tulips soon to grow amidst the cold. Who knows who might be waiting for us at the next stop.